


Color-Coded Kisses

by v1cesv1rtues



Category: I Don't Know How But They Found Me (Band), Panic! at the Disco
Genre: F/F, First Time, Teen AU, Teenagers, brallon, genderbend bc girls.....good, i did not proofread this so who knows how many things are wrong!, uhhhhh yeah have fun with this kiddos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2020-02-08 19:01:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18629359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/v1cesv1rtues/pseuds/v1cesv1rtues
Summary: Delilah Weekes is perfect.Brenda Urie decides she wants to fix that.





	Color-Coded Kisses

**Author's Note:**

> this was!!! totally!!! inspired!!! by my gf's (stayfr0sty) work!!!! specifically her fic, so i'll leave the link here, make sure to read it!!! it's lovely!!!  
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/18615706?view_adult=true
> 
> i don't really write much but the work above was so good i wanted to try something out so yeah! hope you enjoy!

There was one thing Brenda didn’t like about Delilah. Well, besides her obsession with Doctor Who. She couldn’t stand it. Her lip went numb when she went to Delilah's because she’d bite down so hard every time she saw it. Rather the lack of it- the lack of anything. That girl was way too fucking clean. Metaphorically, sure. She was a button-up Christian girl. A gay Christian girl, but a Christian nonetheless. But no, Bren didn’t mind that. What she did in fact mind was-

“You have a color-coded underwear drawer?” Bren scoffed, her red fingertips holding up a pair of pink intimates for display. The shade of panties matched that burning on Delilah’s face. The taller girl made a disgruntled huff before she snatched them out of her hands.

“Usually,” Dal muttered, delicately folding the pair and putting them into their place. “You’re supposed to ask me to dinner before you go through my underwear.” Bren laughed, wrapping her hand around the bony waist of the maid.

“I’m pretty sure we’ve had dinner before, Dal. I’m pretty sure I’ve had you for-”  
“B!” Delilah swatted the girl away, spewing lewdness like a gnat in her ear. With the mission of annoying her girlfriend complete, Bren nestled her face against Dallon’s neck. God, she was so warm. Especially with the blushing she had been doing. It was astonishing how easily Bren could get her worked up; just move something out of place. Screw something up. Get rough. Get messy. Bren decided to keep this in mind.

 

Bren was reborn every time she touched a microphone and died every time she put it down. Band practice was her party and her funeral. The guest-list? Population of one: Delilah Jane Weekes. It wouldn’t be for long though, Bren could feel it. She could feel the crowd chanting the lyrics Dal pressed into her eager lips. She could feel the lights illuminating her brown eyes, searching the crowd to be found. She could feel the pricks of thorns scathing her thighs as roses hit the stage. But for now, all Bren felt was out of place. Of course Dal’s family let her have an entire room for band practice. An entire room of functioning amps, basses, guitars, synthesizers, drums. And of course, it was perfectly and utterly clean. There wasn’t a single record out of place, a sheet of notes on the floor, not a wire that wasn’t shoved neatly to the side. You look at the room, then you look at Bren, and you have to step back. 

Last chorus of the song, and she is the biggest mess in the whole holy household. Her white Courtney Love tank top clings tight to her chest, where beads of sweat drip down, down, down. She desperately pulls her hair back, but strands of brown stick to her cheeks. She sings, she sings, and she stops. The ringing in her ears are in the foreground, and Dal’s last note on the bass take the background. Then, nothing. Nothing but Delilah.

“That was...neat.” Dal drags that last word out, as if searching for something to say. Something to describe the way B dances like she is going to die. A word to summarize how her hair falls over her eyes when she’s growling love letters Delilah wrote herself. Something that would capture the way Bren rips her heart out for every song and parades it for four minutes and sixteen seconds. The whole band performs. Spence bites her lip when he hits those cymbals. Isabelle can’t help but shake when her fingers touch those strings. Dal smiles when she plays bass, and Dal almost never smiles. But not the whole band does what B does. And Dal isn’t in love with the whole band.

Bren smirked, and those red lips are louder than the silence between the two. Louder than Isabelle and Spence would be, if they actually came to practice instead of the Friday Night lights at their high school. Louder than Dal’s family would be if they were at their home instead of the Church Weekend Getaway Dal fake-sicked herself out of. Bren smirked, and Dal heard what B was thinking. She put the microphone back in the stand.

“You’re pretty neat too,” Bren purred. She made her way towards Dal, step by step, breaking the silence one clack of her Converse at a time. With each step, she felt the heat grow. Literally. Sure, Bren was hot and sweaty, but Dal wasn’t perfect either. She noticed the way her usually pale lips were glossed over. She could see a hue of cherry in her cheeks. B wanted to taste that cherry. B needed to taste that cherry. She could’ve sworn Delilah was getting redder with every step Bren took.

Truth be told, they had never gotten that far. In fact, the two hadn’t gone far at all. Delilah was scared, nervous, and Bren respected that. If Dal was going to be the lamb, Bren was going to be the lion lying by her side. Bren knew what it was like to kiss girls before Dal. Dal didn’t what it was like to kiss anybody before Bren, and this was junior year. Now, she was acquainted with the activity. She knew what it felt like to have a girl’s lips on hers. She liked it. Sorry God. Bren knew a few other things Dal might like.

Bren slid her finger down Dal’s bass, tugging at a string at the end. The corners of her lips tipped upwards and she let out a giggle. Dal’s lips weren’t moving, as if Bren had glued them shut with that damn giggle. Seeing as no statement would be provided by Dal, B went on. “I’m so hot right now, could you help me cool down?” Now, B was ready for her to jump. She was ready for her to tangle her hands in the fabric of her shirt. She was ready for her to make a move. 

“Do..do you want me to turn the air on?” Delilah slid her bass on to the stand and made a move. Towards the door. “My mom said she didn’t want it below 70 but-” Her lips couldn’t make out anymore words when they were on Bren’s. She pushed in for more, but Bren reared back. Gripping her by the collar of her pink button up, she led the girl along with her index finger.

“This way, my dear,” Bren whispered. This time, she knew Dal was getting redder. They landed in Dal’s bedroom, which hummed of garageband girls singing on her computer. The gals sang of making out in the bathroom stalls, of undressing under bleachers, of… exploring depths Dal had never explored before. She wished she payed more attention to the lyrics, and maybe she’d know what to do in this situation. All she could do was stare when Bren let her stare, and act when Bren let her act. B stripped off her shoes, her fishnets, the tidiness of Delilah’s room. Staring at the mess of clothes on the floor, she wasn’t moving fast enough for Bren’s liking so Bren had to move for her. B grasped her wrists and threw her against her bed too fast for her to do anything, to say anything. Too fast for her to take in how Bren’s thighs below in that plaid skirt. Too fast for her to realize that her shoes are off and every button of her shirt is undone. It’s all so fast, all so sweaty, all so…

“Is this good?” Bren pauses. She’s slow. She’s soft. “I mean…,” She tilts her head to the side and Dal can’t see anything but those brown eyes. “Are you okay with all this?” 

Dal smiles.  
“I’m okay.”  
That was the last slow moment for a long time.

Bren puts her hands on Dal’s hips and kisses her like a lion taking its first bite of lamb. Bren kisses her like she’s never been kissed before. Bren kisses her rough. All over the place. Messy. Dal doesn’t remember getting on the bed or throwing her shirt off. She hears Bren say that she loves her, and that’s all she needs to hear. She says it over and over again, but only in between kisses down her neck, down her collar bones, down her breasts. She feels a sharp sensation and prays her church dress will hide whatever sin has been imprinted on her skin. She feels a wet sensation up and down her body and hopes B’s lipstick looks good on her. She feels a hot sensation in her heart. And other places. Places Bren’s mouth is moving towards.

Bren now understands why Dal is religious. Why she worships heaven so much. That’s because B has found her heaven. She has found the way to worship in the form of bitemarks and bruises. But she wants more. She wants more of Dal’s moans decorating the biting air. She wants more of Dal’s hand holding onto her hair like her last rope. She wants more of Dal thrusting her hips towards B when she kisses a sensitive spot. She wants more of Dal. This is why she unzips her black skinny jeans.

Delilah isn’t hot. She is a bouquet of roses set on fire. Delilah isn’t panting. She is in another galaxy and Bren is her only oxygen. Delilah isn’t done. Delilah isn’t goddamn done. So when she hears that zipper go down, when she hears B stop panting for a moment, when she hears B ask if this was ok, she laughs. She laughs and shoves her down to the land where her legs meet. Dal feels her underwear slide off. She feels warm breath against her skin. Then, she feels everything. 

 

“Y’know,” Bren sighs, staring at the ceiling. “I’m really glad Spence and Isabelle didn’t come to practice.” Dal snorts, her lips facing Bren’s cheek.

“Really? You don’t think they would’ve enjoyed us gals just being pals?”  
“Oh yes, of course, us gals just being pals,” Bren repeats, turning towards Dal so that their lips are inches apart. There’s a comfortable silence between the two. That is, until Bren laughs. Dal opens her eyes, a curious smile laid across her face.

“What?”  
“Delilah Weekes.” Bren leaves one last lipstick smear on Dal’s face. “You. Are. A. Mess.”


End file.
